A Matter of Reticence
by SiCanFly
Summary: Harry struggles to manage his impulse control disorder. Yeah, he has a problem. Trigger warning; Dermatillomania, Excoriation disorder, body focused repetitive behaviour (bfrb), skin picking disorder.


Harry cocked his shoulder just that little bit further forwards, just enough. It hurt, his shoulder muscles screamed, fire running under his skin, but it came through his mind muted, like it were someone elses' body.

Null.

He'd promised himself, _'no more, no more_ fucking _picking!'_ but yet, once he was in the hot steam of the Hogwart's magical showers, his pore's widened in the warmth, to sweat. Once they did so, there was no way he couldn't _not_ pick.

His nails, just long enough to pinch accutely at the tiny pores across the back of his shoulder, he moved from one to the next.

To the next and the next and the next.

 _Just one more_ he'd promised himself as he continued to pinch and pluck at the follicles, guilty satisfaction flooding him at the sight of the disgusting little sebaceous filament that he squeezed out.

Harry would rationalize it to himself, it's normal it's normal it's normal, for the little filling to be there, he knew it wasn't wrong, or dirty it was _normal._ Though that didn't stop his left hand ravaging over the back of his right shoulder blade, his right arm held tight to his body, out of the way. Or from ravaging the rest of his body, at that.

He'd long since angled his body out of the hot spray, to let his picking field dry. It was easier, his nails more precise, skin less slippery and he'd never been more aware that he had a problem. It was so easy to get lost in it, like popping bubble wrap. You _need_ to get everything or you won't be fully satisfied.

Even though it was through myopic eyes, Harry could still see clearly at this distance, pupils in the corner of his eyes to trying see beyond tightest strains of his peripheral's, arms burning with the strain of trying to reach where he couldn't and it frustrated him beyond belief. He knew there were tiny zits, gross pores and he _needed_ to get it out of him. Whatever the disgusting stuff was that was inside of his skin.

Unable to see, Harry took his left arm away from his right shoulder, instead reached it behind him and twisting his elbow up so his palm rested in the centre of his back. Nails scratching, raking to _get it out get it out get it out_ , grey pills of skin came away easily, as did a few tiny buds of hardened sebum.

Clearing it out from his nails, Harry fought back a cry of disgust.

It's _normal._

"It's normal," He breathed to himself, affirming it. "It's normal," He repeated.

Yes, it was normal for it to be there, but he didn't _want_ it there. He _needed_ it to not be.

He was going to be late, at this rate, there was no denying. It had to be at least 10:00am by now. For a moment he panicked, he was going to be late, and Professor Snape wasn't exactly the most lenient or compassionate man.

Snorting at even the thought of Snape letting him off for being late, Harry ducked back under the water, smoothing conditioner through his hair, not caring to check the label. It was something potently fruity, at the very least.

 _Don't look down._

Harry rinsed his hair, refusing to look down. If he caught a glimpse of his arms or sternum, skin cramped and littered with red pock marks, he'd never get out.

The worst was that he knew the picking caused bumps, bumps that filled with pus, or covered with tiny little scabs, he picked at those too, the marks he accidentally put there while trying to get rid of the bumps before.

Assured he was finished, he moved away from the elaborate bronze faucet (a raven's head, Rowena's work) and the water automatically ceased. Slinging a fluffly white towel around his waist, Harry began to rub his body with another, aggressive and rough, though it was only a minor discomfort to his already sore skin.

Deciding it was better to just skive potions altogether, Harry placed his glasses onto his nose and his surrounding's returned to their familiar sharpness. No way was he going to go down there like this.

It shamed the boy hero that his immediate thought's were that he could return to Gryffindor Tower and pick at the _gross_ tiny bumps that were scattered across the sides of his shoulders, the very tops of his biceps.

It wasn't that picking was _all_ he thought about, it's just that it was often the _first_ thing he thought about.

Long sleeves, always long sleeves. Long sleeved shirts, then his jumper, then his Hogwarts robe on top of that. It was compulsory and exceedingly hot but Harry found himself thanking the school for that extra protection.

Both from unwanted prying eyes and his own uncontrollable wandering hands.

Yeah, he had a problem.

* * *

 **Just a short piece. I have dermatillomania, which is defined as the compulsive need to repetitively pick at one's own skin.**

 **Reviews would highly be appreciated.**

 **-SiCanFly**


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